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A while ago, I attended a birthday gathering for a friend of mine. It was a small group, comprised of about eight women, plenty of wine, and a to-die-for jalapeno dip. Most of the women had known each other for a while, a decade or more of friendship. As an outsider of the group, I had a great time watching the dynamics and getting a chance to meet everyone. The group was relaxed and easy without pretention. And…did I mention the wine?
Two of the women held the distinctive title of Published Authors. They were funny, spunky, self-deprecating. Most of the rest of us in the room considered ourselves Writers of Nondistinction--bloggers, journalers, clandestine storytellers without the confidence of publication behind us. For me, at least, the Published Authors seemed to have an unattainable, unimaginable status that surrounded the women like the effervescent, pre-Raphaelite glow of the Lady of Shallot.
These Published Authors were wise. They were experienced....
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